


And I Fade Away

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adderall Withdrawal, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Kidnapping, M/M, Panic Attacks, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 10:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts, as so many of Stiles' better stories do these days, with way too many energy drinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Fade Away

**Author's Note:**

> pretty graphic descriptions of panic attacks, also a concussion that probably tips Stiles into unreliable narrator status for the majority of the story. also a pretty unpleasant description of someone getting shot.
> 
> edit: yeah lmao i wrote this in like a day and didn't read it over like a dumbass so it's basically incoherent. i hate deleting completed works so i'm just gonna orphan it i think?? yeah um save yourself some time and probably don't read it

            It starts, as so many of Stiles' better stories do these days, with way too many energy drinks.

             For once, though, it isn't the fault of the drinks themselves. He only notices it when he goes to toss a freshly emptied can of coke into his trash bin and it bounces off, skittering across the floor: the bin is completely overflowing. The late nights and half-hearted attempts to maintain werewolf-level stamina are finally catching up with him in the most annoying of ways, because Da-ad, he's got werewolf ass to kick, he can't take out the trash _right this second_. The sheriff just eyes the mountain of empty bottles, unimpressed, and Stiles knows they're going to revisit this again the next time he tries, not subtly, to switch fast-food curly fries for a limp take-out salad.

            But he does what he's asked anyway.

            It's night out, and Stiles actually has the whole thing to himself for once, no shenanigans, no blood or dying or anything. Except, of course, for his massive kill streak on CoD (what up, high-five). Scott's picking fun at his weapon of choice (shut up dude, snipers rule), Stiles is taking full advantage of the level playing field where werewolf abilities are tragically inferior to his fiercely honed gaming skills, and nobody thinks anything of it when he excuses himself to take out his trash.

             He tosses the bag into the dustbin at the end of the driveway and brushes his hands off with a grimace, trying to get the sticky feeling of soda off his fingers. He's about to turn and head back into the house when something stops him, and it takes him a moment to process what it was. He spins, frowning, to focus on the other side of the street, and waits a moment. Then the bushes lining the sidewalk rustle a second time.

             Okay, call him a coward, call him tactical - hell, freaking call him a 'fraidy-cat, Stiles doesn't care. What he does care about is living to see tomorrow, for like, a whole bunch of reasons. Not the least of which is his own selfishness. So, the first thing he does is try to calulate the distance between the end of the driveway and the garage door, just beyond which lies the back door of the house. The bush gives another rustle, just to confirm any lingering hopes he might have had that he was safe right now.

             If it's a werewolf, or in fact anything tagged as supernatural, he's pretty much screwed. Stiles keeps one hand gripping tightly to the rim of the trash can, gross as it is, just in case he needs to throw up an obstacle. The street around him is bathed in orange, the sky already dark enough to warrant streetlamps and the night late enough that no-one else is around, cars cold in driveways. One part of him is glad for it, because the fewer witnesses to totally unexplainable events, the better - but a (vocal) part of him also sort of wants to whine pathetically, 'Why _me_ ,' and push someone else into the firing line for once, because this? Sucks.

            Stiles clears his throat, and the sound of it cuts through the still air of the evening like a knife. One shout and his father would be outside in less than ten seconds, and he takes strength from the thought, even if he's pretty sure he won't act on it. He casts another longing glance back to the house and knows instantly it was the wrong move, because holy sh... _Was that a growl?_ His attention drawn back to the hedge, fingers fumbling on the edge of the trash can. Yeah, that was definitely a growl. Which means, hey, great, definitely a werewolf. If it's someone he knows, he maybe has a chance, and he wants to scoff at the likelihood of that being the case, but knowing Derek's pack, he's not putting anything past them - not to mention the man himself.

            His muscles are taut under his clothes, tensed for the slightest sign of movement from the other side of the road. There's another moment of silence, a beat where the only sounds are the trees down the road waving in the breeze and his heart thudding in his ears, when there's a scuffing noise from behind him. He doesn't get a chance to turn and look before there's a hand over his mouth and another gripping him around the middle, and he's torn unceremoniously away from the garbage can before he can even think about kicking it over. He doesn't waste energy trying to shout through the hand, just focuses on prying it off and trying to keep his balance as he's dragged backwards in an eerie silence, broken only by the strained grunts of the guy holding him as Stiles elbows him as hard as he can.

             This feels frustratingly like something Derek would do to get him away from unfriendlies, but Stiles can see sleeves in his peripheral vision and unless the alpha's taken up a liking for plaid shirts, he's definitely not on the list of suspects. Stiles only pinpoints how totally fucked he is when he twists hard enough to catch a glimpse of an SUV, parked by the sidewalk in front of next-door's house, a rear door already waiting wide-open. His eyes widen and he redoubles his efforts at struggling, trying to trip the guy up or get a shout off or something, _anything_ , but the guy has a height advantage and a good thirty pounds of muscle on Stiles's weedy body. _Gotta alert Dad,_ he thinks wildly; one of his desperately flailing hands smacks something solid and metal and he draws it back with a flinch before he realises it's the cruiser, and he's kicking out before the idea even fully forms. The attempt at setting off the car's alarm only loses him ground, but from a few feet away he can see scuff marks on the bumper and he can only hope to God that his dad catches them too.

            They're up against the SUV before he gets another chance at escape. Without (much) wincing, he presses himself back against the chest he's being held tightly against and braces his feet against the side of the car - it takes him shoving with all his might before both of them are toppling over, and he rolls onto his side and manages to haul himself up onto his hands and knees. He knows he has seconds, maybe less, and he draws in a breath to yell his freakin' voice hoarse; there's a hand on the back of his head, a sudden and unexpectedly powerful force slamming him into the concrete.

            It was a good move, he finds himself sluggishly processing as his unresisting body is heaved into the waiting car. Good for them, that is. Him... Not so much. There's brief conversation he's still struggling to process five minutes later, fingers forcing his head around to study him, and there might have been questions aimed at him, and someone's tired sigh accompanying a bitter announcement that he has to go with them. He disagrees, vehemently disagrees, in fact. But the fury he's trying to get across doesn't make it past his lips, and he has to content himself with a murmured and uselessly repetitive "No, no, no, no-", that's mostly ignored, until the short-tempered woman in the front seat turns around to glare at the big guy who's on babysitting duty in the back with him.

            "Make him shut up before I shoot him," She threatens unimaginatively, and Stiles wants to protest but he'd rather sleep, to be honest. His head is throbbing worse than the time Erica hit him with a piece of his own car, and there's a tickling on his temple that's gradually moving south which is almost definitely blood. He slumps against the seat and turns his face into it with a groan, which serves ostensibly to express his thorough dissatisfaction but also means he gets to rub his DNA on things.

            Stiles is having trouble enough trying to stay awake through the motion of the vehicle, and not pass out or throw up, to put up much of a fight when his arms are twisted harshly behind him and looped with rope. It hurts but puts him in a position to rest his head against the cool glass of the window, which... Holy God, it feels so good. The streets around the car are mostly abandoned, even though it's barely midnight - Beacon Hills isn't exactly renowned for its thriving nightlife.

            He must be blacking out, he realises eventually when a whole section of the road turns into forest, and there's a thick, twisted cloth wedged between his lips he doesn't remember being there before. He tries to force himself to concentrate, because he's gonna be really pissed off about this later and he needs a vague idea of the route for when he escapes, which is pretty high on his to-do list right after 'sleep' and 'vomit spectacularly'.

            The car stops long after he's given up trying to estimate the length of time on the road, and he's dragged mercilessly out of it and into a building before he can process his surroundings. Trees, he definitely saw. The building itself just seems to be a house, devoid of any furnishings at all, but he's not allowed to spend time cataloguing as he's herded up the stairs. Big Guy's carrying most of his weight, while Stiles tries feebly to get his legs to do what they're told but only manages a half-hearted stumbling. It's with great relief that the dude finally dumps him in a room just off the hallway on the first floor, before sealing him in the darkness.

            It's a good job he isn't afraid of the dark, Stiles tries to comfort himself with. His eyes take a moment after the stark brightness of unguarded bulbs downstairs to adjust, but finally he pulls himself together enough to stop swaying on his feet and back against the wall. He follows it around the edges of the room to find a point as far from the door as he can; they, whoever they are, must have taken over an abandoned house, and he doesn't trust the flooring an inch. There's one window which gives him a little light, but the moon is behind a heavy cloud, and he'd barely caught a glimpse of the room in the light that spilled from the corridor. Knowing his luck, there would be some kind of gaping hole in the middle of the room. It'd be a way to escape, sure, but more likely he'd break both his legs and be in even worse shape.

            He slides down to sit on the ground, fingers fidgeting weakly with the rope around his wrists. He wants to stay awake, wants to be wired enough to be on his guard, but his head is pounding, aching in a beat with his pulse, and he only has time to blink woozily once or twice before he's out cold.

            The morning sun hits him hard. Stiles has managed to lie directly in its path, though he has no idea what time it is - his hand jerks reflexively to check his phone before it's quickly halted, and he abruptly remembers what happened last night. He groans into the gag as the headache makes its presence felt, and flexes his fingers to try to regain some of the feeling after the stiffness of holding the same position all night.

            At some point during the night, he must have keeled onto his side, because that's where he's woken - half on his stomach to accomodate his bound arms, face pressed against floorboards covered in a thick layer of dust. He winces and feels the skin on his forehead pull. _Real sanitary_ , he grimaces. Now there's gravel _and_ dust in what's probably a pretty serious head wound. He's more alert than last night, thankfully, and the adrenaline is starting to collect in the pit of his stomach, along with a healthy dose of apprehension.

            A quick glance around the room reveals no giant holes in the floor, and he's not sure how he feels about that. It does show a clearly unused fireplace and odd scraps of wood that might once have been part of a dresser. He's vaguly aware of the door locking behind him last night which right now makes the window the most promising object for him, so he uses the wall and his shoulder to push himself unsteadily to his feet and moves to examine it.

            It only takes a second for him to lose all hope of attracting someone's attention. He can see other houses in the distance, but they're way down a path that doesn't look well-travelled - by the look of the treeline, they're a halfway into the forest. The house is hidden by trees, no one would come near it. He doesn't even know if they're still in Beacon Hills. Hell, if they're even still in the county. No way would his dad hand the case to anyone else, though.

             It only occurs to him then to wonder if his father's realised that he's missing yet. He only went to take out the trash but he knows how his dad gets caught up in his case files sometimes, especially when he has a drink. No, he definitely would have. Stiles shuts his eyes, leans against the wall and just breathes, trying not to picture his father calling his name to an empty house. Next... next, he would have tried to call— shit, his _phone_ —

            Stiles twists to reach the pocket where he normally stores his phone, only to belatedly remember leaving it on his desk beside his laptop. _Goddamn_. Well, this wasn't exactly something he'd been prepared to have happen. It's lucky enough that he thought to lace his shoes. He only has the loose grey t-shirt and jeans he was wearing at the time, and he sends up silent thanks that it isn't winter and he won't freeze to death.

             He fiddles with the rope around his wrists while he thinks, but the knots are tight and the loops cinched close enough so he can't slip his fingers out. Scott would have been the first person his dad would have called. If he wasn't quick enough to cover - although Stiles can't think of a single excuse that might work - Scott could only have told him what Stiles had mentioned, so wouldn't be much help - but _did_ have a super handy set of werewolf super tracking powers, which seriously put him right at the top of Stiles' list of helpful people. Coming in somewhere near the bottom would be Derek Hale, who would probably be more useful than anybody, but Stiles wasn't counting on his presence. He's not kidding himself: it only barely happened the other way around because Stiles was under duress, and he's pretty sure Peter's in no hurry to force Derek to help this rescue effort. Counting Derek out also took out his crew, which more or less left the Beacon County PD, Scott and possibly some Argents-

            That gives him pause. He doesn't even know what they want from him. He'd assumed werewolves because of the growling (and he would have kicked himself for falling for such a stupid distraction, if he wasn't already injured enough), but the Big Guy could barely hold onto him, and he hasn't seen a single claw. Hunters? So much for the Code. They could be unrelated to the supernatural completely, too - a lot of people have problems with the sheriff's department, though he can't think of anything major in the last few years that might warrant this extreme response. He wills himself to remember what they were asking him last night, but all he can hazily picture is a dark car interior and an overwhelming urge to be sick.

             He supposes he'll find out soon enough, though he thinks he could live without knowing, if it meant that he'd actually _live_.

             Stiles glances through the window again and tries to judge the distance from between it and the ground outside. If he could get the thing open, it was a real possibility. He lifts his eyes to the latch and the gag catches the hum of annoyance before it can leave his mouth, because the stupid thing is painted over and would be impossible for him to prise open in his state. He lines himself up, side-on, instead, and rolls his neck. Bracing his shoulder against the glass, he draws back once and _thumps_ —

            Holy Jesus freakin' Christ that hurts like a _bitch_ —

             He tries shouldering it a second time, blinking away the watering of his eyes. His shoulder is now officially in the running for most painful ouchie in his body, but at least it's detracting from the headache, a low and constant beat in the back of his mind. The glass doesn't give but it wobbles, obviously loose, and he's about to try for a third when he hears footsteps on the stairs.

            He panics for five seconds before he decides he's already committed, and they probably can't be that much more pissed just for one more go. The third try lands spectacularly, the glass spiderwebbing under the force of his blow, but it doesn't shatter completely. There's a shout of outrage from the doorway on the opposite wall and then Stiles is stumbling under the heavy hand that grabs him by the back of the neck. Big Guy pushes him to the side and then tests the glass by pushing it. It splinters further, threatening to collapse, but he stops before it does, and Stiles is a little proud of himself for almost managing it, before remembering that it's not much of an escape attempt if they catch you doing it.

             His heart is pounding and making his head throb harder, encouraging his bruised shoulder to join in. Big Guy doesn't pick up on the apprehension, just scowls at him for pulling him away from whatever he'd been doing, and hauls Stiles over to the door. He expects to be thrown into another room, windowless this time, and possibly left there forever, but instead he's turned towards the stairs. Stiles is still shaky on his feet so he slips more than once and skids down several stairs, but Big Guy doesn't release the vice-like grip on his upper arm, so Stiles knows he'll have more bruises to deal with when this is over.

            He catches glimpses of the rest of the house, but it does nothing to dispell his idea that they're squatting in an old house that's just waiting for a buyer. There are bits and pieces of furniture, obviously left from a previous owner, and there's nothing lying around that he can pick up for his own use or even glean a hint from. They keep moving down the hall towards another doorway, and Stiles can see stairs beyond it. His slipping and swerving is a little more deliberate now because he really _really_ doesn't want to go down into that basement but Big Guy remains unfazed, jerking him along, and Stiles is left without much of a choice.

             He's dropped into a chair in the middle of the room. It's freezing down there, and he can feel goosebumps already starting to appear, a smattering over the bare skin of his forearms. Big Guy stands beside him like some kind of massive guard dog who's really misinterpreted his role, but Stiles is more interested in the others in the room: a pasty-white, bland-looking man who'd probably look more at home in an office than cautiously stroking a pistol and a tall, dark-skinned guy who's glaring at Stiles over folded arms as though it was his own fault for being there. The annoyed woman from last night is there too, leaning over a table that held... unpleasant things. Very very unpleasant things.

             He's not stupid, he knows the (varied, wow) weapon collection is there to scare him - but, well, it's _working_. He feels his heartrate ratchet up another notch.

             She turns to him when he can't hide the muted sound of protest, her expression much less annoyed than last night. It's a little more sadistically gleeful now, and Stiles feels the nausea in his stomach roil in dread.

             "You know who we are."

             Well, that was... Crap. Stiles grunts in irritation as Big Guy tilts his head to dig fingers into the knot resting in the short hair at the nape of his neck and undo the gag, and as the spit-slick cloth drops to the floor he can feel his jaw aching. He ignores it to swallow, his voice dry as he replies. "I actually, seriously, have no idea. My Dad is the sheriff, you could be a lot of people." He hesitates, then goes for it. Might as well really hammer their idiocy home. "You knew that, right? That my dad has the _entire police force_ at his disposal?"

             She looks delighted that he's chosen to engage her, and he shivers in the drafty air. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I've had plenty of experience dealing with law enforcement."

            Stiles presses his lips together to stop himself from retorting, and lets out a slow and assessing breath. They're hunters. Either that or bank robbers, or some kind of serial murderer gang, and there's no way Beacon Hills is that cool. But just like everything else in his life, it's a direct line to werewolves. God... He just wanted _one_ night. Still, they could actually _be_ werewolves, and then he'd really be in trouble. He's glad enough they aren't, not least because it means they can't laugh themselves stupid at how hard his heart is pounding.

             Whatever they are, Stiles is at a definite disadvantage in every single way he possibly could be and yeah, he's freakin' terrified. He's also literally certain his dad would be the one to kill him if he found out about the fact that Stiles actually had a kind of secret life that actually put him in positions like this since the age of sixteen.

            She drags a chair to face him, and sits. He twists his wrists in an instinctive urge to defend himself, and the ropes squeak in protest. She smiles benignly. "Okay, kiddo, this is the easy part. All I need from you are names." Stiles doesn't reply, uncertain. "That's it. That's all I need. No one's gonna get hurt. I promise, we're no danger to them. Just the names of all the werewolves in Beacon Hills."

             _We're no danger to them._ Stiles tries to stop the slightly hysterical burst of laughter but it bubbles out of him, heedless to his effort. A cover starts to formulate almost immediately, however. "Werewolves? What are you, crazy? Seriously, lady, I have no idea what you're talking about." The words spill out easily as he mentally scans back through the last day to make sure there hasn't been anything to give him away. There shouldn't be anything except the growling in the hedgerow, and hey - that could totally have been a mountain lion. He almost wishes that it was. No, he _definitely_ wishes that it was.

            The fist comes out of nowhere. If it wasn't for the hand on his shoulder he'd probably be sprawled across the floor, but even the way it stands he's practically bent double, eyes squeezed tight shut against the fresh flare of pain in the until-now uninjured side of his face. He straightens up, biting back a string of inventive swear words, though when he sees the smugness of her expression he wishes he hadn't bothered. Gingerly he works his jaw, trying to get a feel for the bruise, and can feel his cheek answer accordingly.

            The sickly apprehensive feeling is swelling dangerously. Aside from trying to get him into the car and just not being particularly gentle while they hauled him around, they haven't actually made a direct point of hurting him. If they're actually willing to, knowing that he's human... This changes things.

            "I'm gonna ask again, sweetheart. And reconsider the heroic silence act, because we already know it's bullshit. Who else in this crappy little town is a werewolf?"

            His breath catches in his throat and he clears it, trying to hide it his dread. "Uh, who _else_?" Fear grips him, paralysing and cold, and he begs her not to say Scott's name, don't let her know about Scott, God, please...

            She shrugs dismissively. "We've known about the Hales for years. We know the kid's an alpha now, but if he has any betas, he's keeping well clear of them." Not much of a kid anymore, if it's Derek she's talking about. Giant man-child, maybe. All the same, something eases in his chest, and he can breathe a little easier. "You're the only one we've seen interact with them in a week."

            This startles him, for several reasons. First, they've been here a _week_ and nobody thought to maybe mention something to him? And... Wait, "What? I haven't been anywhere near them in..." Stiles' voice trails away as he remembers. She fails to look sympathetic as he sighs in exasperation, realising he's busted.

            Erica had asked him to pass on a message to Derek the other day. Stiles had been reluctant from the beginning, if flat denial could be considered 'reluctant', but Erica had played it off that she didn't have a car and it would be easier for him (not true) and besides, it was right on his way home (even less true, and in what universe was the middle of the Preserve on _anyone's_ route home?). He'd gone all the same, eventually, because he was kind of a pushover where werewolf threats were concerned. Which they were. In graphic detail. He definitely didn't get why they couldn't just call each other like normal people did, but when he'd posited this question to Derek he'd been summarily kicked off the property with all of Derek's usual brevity and good humour.

             Now he understood. Derek knew that he was being watched and must have told the betas to stay away. It made sense that his unusually snappy behaviour had been more down to the fact that Stiles had been near him in the first place than... well, okay, that was exactly what Stiles had assumed anyway, but at least it was for a totally different reason than just 'Stiles' existence'. He couldn't hide the frustrated eye-roll. Erica must have assumed that as a human he didn't carry the same risk as the rest of them. God, his friends could be so freaking stupid sometimes.

            No, that wasn't fair. 'Friends' was pushing it.

             Speaking of risk, though, "Don't you have some kind of Code or something? Or is that just a myth too, like werewolves?"

             She laughs. That does not bode well for him. "Gerard Argent practically declared open-season around here. We just heard you were having some issues with the locals, thought we might stop by, help you out."

             Stiles directs a pointed glance to where his hands are still bound behind him. "Well, uh, _as_ a local, I feel like I have the authority to tell you that we're actually doing pretty good right now. You missed all the action. Argents had it covered, real sorry about that. Anyway, so if you just wanna move along now, you know, you can just drop me off anywhere. No hard feelings, right?"

            "Sorry, kid. The Argents have given us free reign to do what needs to get done. You're gonna have to put up with us for just a _little_ longer." She holds out her finger and thumb as a demonstration that gives away nothing about their intent, and he looks up at the other hunters. None of them look inclined to disagree. The tall guy still seems determined to hate him. He remembers something dimly about the Argents via Scott about the women being in charge, and wonders if that applies to all hunters. Either it does, or she's just the scariest in this wacko bunch.

             She's not so bad. He can deal with that.

             "We just need names, sweetheart." It makes him want to shudder in distaste every time she calls him that, but he just goes for a scowl instead. "Just give us the names and you can go home right now, no harm done. You can stay out of this."

             "I already _was_ out of it," Stiles snaps, but it lacks heat. He doesn't believe them in the slightest about not meaning the werewolves any harm, but he does suspect they're serious about not killing him - if they did, the Argents would have something to say about it, he hopes. There's a tiny niggling idea in the back of his head that all he needs to do is give up Derek's pack and maybe he can protect Scott, but suddenly an image appears in his mind: Erica and Boyd, strung up in the Argent's basement, the three of them surrounded by the stench of singed flesh and sweat and blood.

            He shakes his head, to clear the image and steel himself, and looks back up. "I only know Derek. And his uncle." He adds as an afterthought, because if anyone can protect themselves it's Peter.

             The disappointed look on her face tells him they both know he's full of shit, but she doesn't ask him much more after that. Once he's made it clear that he's not betraying anyone, he's yanked to his feet. The woman turns away indifferently, so Stiles is really hoping that he gets to go back to his little room, but there's a more pressing problem that seriously needs dealing with right now before he literally bursts.

             "I have to go to the bathroom." He twists in Big Guy's grip and ignores the snickers of laughter from the other adults in the room. Now is really not the time for embarrassment, because this serves the dual purpose of aggravating them into letting him go and also actually _going to the bathroom_ , and he's never drinking an energy drink again until like, at least next month. Who knew that conversations where your life was potentially in danger did such a great job of waking you up?

            The bathroom turns out to be a complete waste of time anyway, toilet aside. Big Guy doesn't even untie his hands, just watches him fumble to kick the door closed. He almost wonders why he's allowed to before he realises how much of a dud the place is. The window's up too high for him to see out and way too small for him to consider escape, and the room's been stripped of everything but the basics. He pees with some expert manouevering which he never wants to do again, ever, and is reaching for the sink when he catches sight of himself in the mirror.

            He looks like total crap. His gaze takes in the bruises and the dried blood on the side of his head, which looks seriously gross but at least it's stopped bleeding, which has to be a good thing. His hair is flecked with dust, and his shirt has dark spots of blood from his head wound. He catalogues the injuries with a grimace, careful not to look into his own eyes.

             He's marched back upstairs when Big Guy gets fed up of waiting for him. Stiles is really hoping he'll be returned to his old room so he can continue taking out his resentment on the window, but tragically Big Guy doesn't appear to be that stupid, because they head to a different door one room along. He isn't pushed in but still manages to trip over his own feet in the doorway, and he sprawls to the floor without the use of his hands to break his fall. The injured side of his head smacks against the floorboards and his vision momentarily whites out, and he's not sure whether it's the pain or the cloud of dust he raised that's making his eyes water. He hears a snort of amusement from behind him, but by the time he shifts himself onto his side he's locked in alone again.

            He lets out a long, shaky breath and drags himself onto his knees, grimacing around closed eyes. There's not a lot he wouldn't give for werewolf healing right now; the burning of the bruises are constant reminders of how much of a bitch this is going to be for the next few weeks, or months. He ignores the small and bitter _'if you're still alive then'._ He will be. Dad's on his way. He's going to get out of here. He's not counting on any mod cons in the meantime, but he'll make it.

             It hits him then to wonder how they knew that he was a human.

             They must have been watching him since he went to Derek's. They probably knew all about his father, were probably watching him too. They could have done anything, they could have been so close to finding out about Scott—

            Before he realises it, he's in the grip of a panic attack. He's still hunched over on his knees, hands twisting desperately for release just so that he can grasp at his head, at his chest, at anything, now that everything's suddenly so confined. He's claustrophobic suddenly, waves of dizziness washing over him, taking short and shallow breaths despite his lungs screaming at him for more air. He hunches over into a tighter ball, figuring that he's probably locked himself into passing out, when suddenly there's a hand on his back and another on his chest, forcing him up, and he makes out his name over the blood rushing in his ears.

            The voice sounds familiar but strangely out of context. It's panicked, which isn't helping, though seems to be trying to, telling him to breathe now, just slow it down, fight it, just _breathe_. It's exasperatingly ironic that Stiles can't catch the breath to say 'I freakin' _know_ , you dumbass, what do you think I'm trying to do?'

             It hits him then, the identity of the voice, and the realisation stuns him enough to start to bring him back: only Derek can infuriate him this much after such a short time. His vision starts to clear as he gulps in deeper breaths, and he shoots Derek a darkly suspicious glare from under his eyelashes the second that he can. Derek just sits back, now that Stiles is getting a grip on himself, and the moment Stiles can sit up under his own steam he's retreating back to the opposite wall to give him more space.

             It takes a few minutes before Stiles can ease himself back against the wall he's closest to, and he closes his eyes. His breathing is back to normal, though his chest aches and feels tight, so he's working on regaining a semi-regular heartrate when Derek's voice surprises him.

             "You okay?"

            Stiles opens his eyes blearily, and his reply takes a moment. When he eventually speaks, it's clipped. "Yeah."

            He hates him. Maybe it's irrational or whatever but right now he loathes Derek for asking him that, hates that he felt obligated to help him, that he couldn't just make Stiles' life so much easier by just pretending that it never happened. Jesus, he hasn't had a panic attack in years, and _right now_ , of all times? Stuck in a room with the big bad alpha who clearly has no idea how to deal with the fragile, pathetic token human? Because that's what he is now, with a social circle made up almost entirely of werewolves. _He's_ the freak.

            "You know this is all your fault, right?" He's managed to work himself up into an unreasonable anger, but at least there's a handy supernatural being here to take the brunt of it - until Derek's reply beats him over the head with some perspective.

             "What _isn't_?" It's accompanied by a self-deprecating huff of laughter, and Stiles wants to slam his head back against the wall he's lying against. Derek's sitting underneath this room's window, looking a hundred times better than Stiles feels - outwardly, at least. Stiles can still see the tearing and stains in his clothes that tell a different story. And he's watching Stiles in turn, his expression almost wary, and there's no way Stiles can pick on him and not feel like a complete asshole.

            This, clearly, was why they needed no help figuring out who was the local alpha. Still, it should mean that Derek's pack would get involved, at the very least - unless they have no idea that he's even missing.

             He doesn't even need to ask if Derek was listening. "I guess you heard."

             Derek's arms are folded protectively over his chest, and he surveys Stiles through hooded eyes for a long moment of silence. "You didn't tell them."

            Stiles is taken aback for a moment. Even taking into account Derek's out-of-control trust issues, Stiles can't help but feel a little hurt by the insinuation, no matter how close it stung to the truth. "Of course I didn't tell them. You seriously don't think that much of me, do you?" Derek continues to watch him with that inscrutable gaze. Stiles sighs. "No, I didn't tell them. And I won't. I'm not gonna betray Scott like that."

            Derek doesn't move, doesn't react other than than to narrow his eyes questioningly. "What about the others?"

            Stiles fumbles for an answer. He doesn't know why he decided against it, because he's pretty sure that if it came down to one or the other he's already made his choice, but this isn't something he's supposed to know at his age. He isn't supposed to know from experience exactly how far he would go to protect his friends. But he does. And how can he tell Derek that he won't speak because Scott wouldn't? Scott is his moral compass. He's the hero that Stiles never quite manages to be.

            He picks a half-truth and hopes Derek won't call him out on his dismissive tone. "I don't know, dude. It isn't worth Scott's kicked-puppy eyes when I tell him what happened, trust me." He tries for a laugh. Derek doesn't join in, though when _does_ he? He does look unconvinced enough that Stiles shrugs instead. "What are they gonna do, you know? They're not gonna kill me. They've barely even hurt me that much," He ignores the way Derek's eyes catch on the bruises on his face. "They'll let me go when they get bored. You don't need to worry about me. I mean, it's not like you actually were though, right?"

             It's obvious the confidence he doesn't really feel isn't fooling Derek, but right now really isn't a great time for him to do the whole concerned act. They've got bigger problems, and if there's one thing he can appreciate about Derek it's the way he can distance himself as easily as Stiles can. He slyly changes the subject of focus instead.

            " _You_ , on the other hand... How did you even get here? Is anyone else-" Stiles sits up abruptly, feeling suddenly stupid for wallowing in self-pity when that should've been the first thing he asked. Any of the others could be behind any one of the other closed doors in that hallway with them, and he wouldn't have known.

             Derek understands his panic and shakes his head quickly, reinforcing it with a, "No-one else." Stiles allows himself to slump back down, already regretting the increased blood flow to his head the brief movement stimulated, that makes it pound harder. It's only when Derek's face darkens in annoyance that Stiles remembers his other question, and makes an educated guess at the answer.

             "What, they actually took you by surprise?" He can't hide the surprise in his voice because Derek tends to make it a point to appear as invulnerable as possible, so to find out there are actual gaps in the shield is a little jarring. When Derek glares at him, though, he makes sure to not leave his mouth hanging open. Derek's just daring him to make it a point and he wants to, God help him he _so_ wants to, there's actual wisecracks already forming, but he stops himself with an effort. He tells himself it's only because he's astonishingly even more defenceless than usual, and he really thinks he'd prefer to be downstairs with the hunters than up here with a pissy alpha.

             Seriously though, there are like a whole bunch of empty rooms and they have to stick him in this one? They're probably hoping Derek eats him and does their job for them.

             Stiles considers his response carefully before he speaks. "Well... Please tell me they at least got Peter, too?" Derek doesn't react audibly, at least as far as Stiles can hear, but Stiles will swear to his dying day (which hey, could be any day now) that he sees the tiniest hint of a smirk on the corners of his lips. He also takes the answer as an unfortunate no, and blows out a breath. "You think they were telling the truth about the Argents?"

            Derek's probably the best person to be having this conversation with. Between him and Scott they're both pretty biased. Scott, he knows, would deny it outright, but Stiles would really prefer the worst-case answer so he has the potential to be pleasantly surprised. He's more or less neutral on the matter, most of the time, caught between the two faces of the family. He never thought that Allison's dad was as bad as the rest of them but he realises with a sinking feeling that he actually has no real idea - and Allison herself? They've never even had a conversation about what she knew that time he took a trip down to their basement.

            He's been operating under the assumption that the twinkling, smiley girl that Scott moons after (pun definitely intended) would never have allowed it, but he's just grasping the idea now that she's never brought it up with him either, and manipulating, creepy grandpa or no she was definitely in charge and didn't have a problem with Erica and Boyd. He can't tell if he's been certain up until now that she's just Allison, sweet girl with the scary family, and he's suddenly unsure, or if he's been ignoring the uncertainty the whole time.

            Derek probably doesn't know exactly where he's at but seems to have an idea, because he shakes his head. "If they were working with the Argent's approval, they would already know everything. These hunters aren't following the Code." Derek doesn't look pleased about it, but unwilling allows, "Chris Argent wouldn't have anything to do with them."

            "We barely know the guy, maybe he had a change of heart," Stiles objects, and Derek shrugs unhelpfully. He makes good points, Stiles knows, and coming from Derek especially it makes it a fair assessment. Whatever. He definitely remembers getting pushed around by Argent and his goons before, but he concedes with an exaggerated air of defeat. "Fine, whatever you say."

             Derek tilts his head and it takes a moment before Stiles realises he's listening to something. A minute later, he doesn't need wolf hearing to catch the sound of the front door slamming closed. He braces himself against the wall and unfolds his legs from under him, pulling himself painfully to his feet to examine the world through the window. Even from a foot or two away from it - because freakin' Derek is still sitting under it and _won't move_ \- he can see almost an identical view to the previous room, and he catches the woman who'd been interrogating him heading for the SUV. He watches as she leaves, following the trail back towards town, and steps closer, leaning against the wall beside Derek.

            He probably couldn't smash this window. Even with her gone there are still at least three other hunters to get through, and besides which, it didn't exactly work brilliantly for him last time. With a werewolf in the room, on the other hand... Stiles lets his head thump against the wall, feeling like an idiot, and decides to put it down to the massive head trauma to stop his ego deflating like a balloon. "Dude, why don't you smash the window? Or better yet, the door - matter of fact, why haven't you just hulk-smashed your way out of this dump yet?"

             "Oh my God, why didn't I think of that?" Derek's eagerness throws Stiles for a second, because bogus or not, he's never heard the guy that enthusiastic before. Stiles just gives him an equally sarcastic smile, because he isn't stupid enough to have not realised that there had to be an actual reason why he hadn't, and sure enough Derek smirks. "Mountain ash, you idiot."

            "Seriously? What, like around the whole room? I can't even see anything." Stiles scans around them, frowning, and Derek opens his mouth to reply. He cuts himself off before he starts, drawing Stiles' attention back, until he hears footsteps on the stairs outside the door. Both of them tense, and Stiles takes a step away from Derek, closer to a corner of the room.

            The footsteps hesitate outside the door for several long seconds, and he's really hoping that Derek doesn't pull his concerned crap and even look at him with the way his heart is thudding, because he seriously can't deal with that right now. The door opens, finally, to show the hunter who'd been glaring at Stiles downstairs as though he could crush him using only his eyes. Apparently Derek picks up on the dread seeping out of him because he's in a crouching position before Stiles even picks up on it, making him flinch back against the wall. The hunter moves too, hand flying to his gun, but he keeps his eyes trained on Stiles, his other hand held out placatingly.

             "Okay, just stay cool. It's fine. I just wanna talk." Nobody moves for a long moment, until the hunter removes his hand from his gun. He doesn't raise it with the other, though, and they all know he could reach it long before Derek could reach him. He doesn't try to step any further into the room, and Stiles swallows and tries to relax against the wall. Derek doesn't sit back down. "I just wanted to ask you something. How old are you?"

             Stiles glances at Derek, disconcerted. Derek doesn't look away from the hunter, so Stiles follows his lead, wary. "Uh, sixteen." For another month, fingers crossed.

            The hunter examines him for a moment longer, before expelling a swear word that sounds completely at odds with his deep voice. "Shit. _Shit_. You're just a kid, what — why the hell are you even involved with these things?" He throws a gesture which presumably indicates Derek, and Stiles finds himself angry enough to actually retort.

            "Hey, my best friend is one of these _things_ , okay? So just back off."

            The room stays quiet for a moment, while Stiles hopes he hasn't blown his chances of getting out of the situation without somebody dying, before the hunter actually sighs. "Look, kid... If you escaped, we'd probably leave town."

            Stiles can only gape in surprise. Was that supposed to be some kind of hint, or what? "Are you kidding me? How exactly am I supposed to-"

            The hunter talks over him, silencing his protests. "If I can get you out of here, can you stay away for a while? Find a place to hide that ain't your house?"

            A place to hide for how long? If his house was off-limits, that still left Scott — no, he couldn't put Scott in the middle of this, not when the whole point was to keep him out of the very literal line of fire. He runs through the people he knows in his head and an idea tentatively forms; he glances down to Derek, who won't tear his eyes away from the hunter but still seems to know that he's being watched, because he gives a grim nod. Stiles looks back up quickly, hurrying to assure the hunter, "Yeah, yeah I do, I do have a place."

            The hunter still looks pissed, but Stiles is starting to feel a little reassured at the blossoming theory that the anger isn't actually aimed at him. He stands in the doorway, dropping his appeasing hand and shifting warily. "Fine. Just be ready tomorrow." His responses are short and angry, but he spends a full ten seconds fixing Stiles with a look. "God... You're just a kid."

            Stiles is left in silence as the door closes, half of him still wondering if any of that actually just happened, and the other half trying to figure out if his last statement is actually supposed to mean something. According to pretty much everyone else, it doesn't. Guess Stiles managed to find the last decent hunter in the whole world, or whatever.

            Derek, obviously satisfied that the guy has really left, straightens smoothly to his feet, the shuffling sound startling Stiles into remembering that he wasn't alone.

            "Aw, crap — what about you? I don't think you were included."

            "Don't worry about it." Derek's reply is almost immediate, too fast for Stiles to place any faith in it whatsoever. "I'll be fine."

             "Well, unfortunately, I _have_ to worry about it, because you're stuck in here with me, so don't tell me not to worry about it, alright?" Stiles scoffs, staring down at the stupid self-sacrificing martyr of a werewolf. The small burst of adrenaline from the conversation has him riled enough to push the issue. "What, you think when they skip town, they're just gonna let you go?"

             Derek fixes him with a quelling stare. "Stiles, listen to me: when you get out of here, just go to the house and stay there. Peter can help if he's around but if not, just _stay there_. If I'm not back after a few days, then go find somebody. Can you do that?"

             It's such a terrible plan that Stiles can only splutter over a response for a few seconds before he finds actual words. "That is a _terrible_ plan! That is... Oh my God, I can't even—"

             "Can you do that?" Derek's voice is unrelenting, and he actually advances on Stiles, who at least stands his ground physically, if not actually.

             "Yes! Yes, God, fine! Even though it's a stupid plan. Fine, I'll do it." He wets his dry lips and scowls, trying to convey just how annoyed he is about the idea through his glare. Derek looks content enough with it, obviously convinced he's not lying.

            Stiles is not happy about it, but he can't figure out another way that allows him to get help and not put himself or anyone else straight back in immediate danger. Again, he knows Scott would protest if he were here. The point is, he's not, and Stiles might be the only one to understand where Derek's coming from even if neither of them like it.

            Still, the thought that he might be out of this place by tomorrow gets him through another night, and another passive-aggressive interrogation, with an emphasis on the aggressive. He adds a couple of fresh bruises to his list of aches and Derek doesn't mention the way he winces when he goes to sit down, though he can see his eyes linger.

            He's pretty sure Derek doesn't get any sleep until the early hours, but he only knows that because he's still too revved up from the questioning to get any either. It's already getting light outside by the time he finally drifts off. As a result of this he doesn't wake until the afternoon sun has warmed the room, and there's shouting echoing up the stairs and feet heading steadily for their room. Derek's wary, already up and crouching. Stiles throws him a questioning look that he doesn't respond to.

            The door opens and the pasty guy stands just inside the room, to keep an eye on Derek, Stiles figures, while Big Guy heads in and hauls Stiles indelicately to his feet. He hardly has the time to mourn the fact that he has a usual seat before he's back in it, the goosebumps blanketing his arms not altogether down to the freezing basement. He can tell immediately that this is going to be a significantly worse day than yesterday. Where before the woman's mood had been almost teasing, coaxing the information from him, now she looks darker, trembling with anger.

            She starts nicely enough. "Okay, kid. I know that you think these people are your friends, and you wanna protect them. I can understand that. I promise, we won't do anything to hurt them. We just wanna know who they are. Really, that's all." Stiles snorts despite his apprehension, 'cause he can't pick out which part of what she just said was the biggest load of shit. She directs a dark glare towards him, and he winces away from the Big Guy, expecting another thump. Instead she exhales smartly and announces, "We aren't getting anywhere like this."

            Stiles throws himself back against the chair as she pulls out a gun, unable to keep back the muttered curse before he presses his lips together tightly. She gives him a smile that oozes condescension, tilting her head towards the weapon. "You wanna talk now?"

            Okay, this just reached a whole new level of not-alright. Stiles fixes his eyes on the floor, unwilling to make eye contact lest she interpret it as a challenge, and mutely shakes his head. She won't kill him. He knows he has to be certain enough to bet his life on the thought, and he steels himself. She won't.

            He isn't prepared for himself to not be the target, though.

             "What about now?" She lifts it to aim at the hunter who intended to help him escape. The guy remains impassive, but Stiles is alarmed enough for both of them.

             "Wait, just... Just hold on a second, alright—"

             The hunter, to his credit, doesn't even bother with excuses. "He's sixteen, Sally." The woman sneers, and Stiles is certain by now that she is fucknuts crazy. "You shouldn't be doing this. _We don't_ do this."

             "No, you know what, _you_ shouldn't be going behind my _back_ —" Sally shouts over him, and readjusts her grip as he raises his hands in submission. She ignores his attempts to calm her, looking back at Stiles. "How about now? You wanna save a life?"

             Stiles is aware how desperate his pleading sounds, but he sits forward on his chair all the same, stammering words out. "Please don't do this, okay, just hold on, look, I-I don't—"

             A suspicion hits him then and he wonders suddenly if the entire thing might have been a set-up, a twisted plan to get him to speak out of desperation, and he falters. Hs words were getting lost anyway in the man's reasonable, calming tone and Sally speaking over both of them, but then he picks up on her growing agitation and twitching hands. He looks to the two others in the room, who both look troubled. Neither of them are stopping her, though.

            "Wait, stop, I'll tell you, just _stop_ —" His final word hangs in the air under the sound of the gunshot.

            The violent and CG-blood-filled videogames Stiles has kicked ass at from pretty much day one can't begin to compare with the reality, with the maggoty pieces of grey matter and blood that paint the ground. Before the body even falls Stiles is on his knees, vomit splattering messily beside the chair, the acidic tang coating his throat. He doesn't faint, which he'll be proud of himself for later, he thinks distantly. He wipes his mouth on his jeans through his straggling gasps for air while he's still hunched over double, and finds himself wishing, of all things right now, for a toothbrush.

            Sally doesn't even throw a look at Stiles, just stalks out of the basement. There's a hand on Stiles' shoulder then, a gentle touch urging him up which he ignores, because the guy can't beat him to shit in one breath and feel bad for him in the next, it isn't supposed to work that way. He's led back to Derek's room (via the bathroom, which he still finds it in himself to be ecstatically grateful for), and he doesn't fight or protest as he's pushed inside, though at least it's not unnecessarily violent. Derek's beside the window but the second they're sealed inside he's on him, hands on his shoulders.

            Stiles tries to pull away but Derek doesn't even seem to notice, trying to get his attention. It almost feels like a panic attack in the way he's spacing out, if it wasn't for his remarkably even breathing. There's an overwhelming numbness that presses him into not wanting this, to hang perpetually somewhere between wanting noise and silence and feeling angry with both, between wanting to be alone to process and at the same time wanting to be close to Derek, who's warm and who protects him sometimes and who won't let him reimagine the memory of death a hundred times.

             He feels as though he's on a knife-edge right now and Derek won't stop trying to pull him back, even when Stiles starts to feel too hot all over, not until he finally snaps, loudly, "I'm _fine_!"

             Derek's hands drop. Stiles finally gets to look at him properly, and he can see the same frantic worry in his eyes that he did the night of the rave before he charged away to help Scott, for just a moment before Derek shuts it down. He thinks back to what Derek must have heard and starts to understand the attention, but can't bring himself to feel too bad considering what he himself actually saw. He turns away instead, picking an arbitrary corner to sequester himself in.

            Derek looks torn between following or returning to the window. Stiles watches his indecision, before sighing. "There's space over here. If you — I don't know, you probably don't. That was stupid." But Derek obeys, keeping a careful distance between the two of them, with Stiles pressed into the corner as though he's trying to make himself smaller.

            He leans his head against the cool wall, allowing it to soothe the silent pulsing of his headache. It doesn't feel like it should be the middle of the afternoon. The sun is still out, the forest around them still rippling in the breeze. He doesn't know how long they sit in silence before a noise pulls him out of his apathetic daze, and he glances to his side to see Derek stretching his legs with a grimace. Stiles gives a half-hearted smile when Derek catches his eye. "Good to know even werewolves aren't immune to pins and needles."

            Surely Derek can tell every time he tenses up, hears the way his heart starts to pound whenever he catches footsteps on the stairs, although none ever stop and he doesn't mention it. There's a close call once where the steps halt outside the door, but then keep moving, and for several minutes afterwards Stiles is still making an effort to breathe slowly through his nose, trying to regain a hold of his tenuous control. He's wound himself too tightly not to flinch when Derek's hand comes to rest on his shoulder and it's startled enough for Derek to pull away again, wary as if surrendering but continuing to watch him.

            Stiles lets his head drop sideways against the wall, resigned. His voice is quiet. "Guess I'm not leaving today." He realises that he's not as broken up about that as he thought he might be, and he wonders if he actually honestly believed it in the first place. God, he's getting as bad as Derek. There's a terrifying thought.

            Speaking of, the man's still watching him like he's going to start screaming and flinging things about any second (well, there's still hours in the day), and Stiles is starting to feel unnerved. He can't stop himself from blurting, "Look, it's nice that you're doing the whole 'care about the pathetic human' act for the cameras, but you don't have to. In fact, don't. You're starting to freak me out."

             Derek just settles back, mildly. "Okay."

             There's a few seconds of quiet before Stiles decides that this can't stand. "What — okay, that's all you've got? 'Okay'?" Derek shrugs, a quick tilt of his hands to ask what more Stiles wanted. "Oh my God, you can't even do that, can you? Can't even — like, the _one_ thing that you—" He bites his tongue to stop himself, huffing out an exasperated sigh, because the one time he needs to work out his nerves and Derek can't even offer him a decent fight.

            He wants to push, wants to get some kind of reaction, but can only fling himself back against the wall with a frustrated scowl when Derek simply _doesn't_. Derek follows suit so at least he's not watching him anymore, but somehow without Stiles having noticed he's close enough for his side to press against Stiles', a warm stripe bordering him that Stiles expects him to move away from. It's not lending much credence to his agreement to the 'stop faking concern' petition that he stays there, a line of heat for Stiles to focus on. Stiles drags up his legs so he can dig his forehead into his knees, relishing the darkness it gives him.

             "I almost told her." Derek doesn't say anything, doesn't even stiffen when he catches the mumble. Stiles can feel the movement of his chest beside him and uses it to ground himself, the steady breathing that lets him wind down in peace. He can't bring himself to even look up. "I wanted to tell her. I wanted — I was going to. If it happens again, I will. I can't... I won't do that again. I can't do it again."

             He stops abruptly as he hears his voice break, his chest feeling tight and the possibility of throwing up a real threat. He doesn't know what he wants Derek to tell him: that he'll be alright, that he'll forget and get out safe, words that he can't possibly know for sure enough to mean. Derek doesn't say anything at all, just lifts an arm around Stiles and pulls him closer. Stiles can't really bring himself to protest because for once Derek isn't scoffing at him or antagonising him, he's just there, solid and stable and actually willing to comfort him.

             Stiles lets the beat of warm breath on his head lull him to sleep, eventually.

            When he wakes, he's alone, and it's light outside. He has no idea if it's still day two or if he's slept through the entire night as he struggles to his feet, and his physical condition is in bad enough shape that it doesn't really matter either way. He flexes his fingers, cringing at the stiffness, and rolls his shoulders as best he can. He should have gotten Derek to claw him free when he could, because every muscle complains, every joint aches, and he's tired enough to want to go straight back to sleep.

             He continues to poke around the room for anything he might have missed, though it's hard to miss anything in an empty room, while ignoring the steady grumble of his stomach. He's passed the point of being honestly hungry now, the thought of food just adding to the roiling wave of sickness inside him. His mouth is dry, and he knows if he doesn't get some water soon he'll be in bigger trouble.

            And God _damn_ \- he hasn't taken any Adderall in at least a day and a half, maybe two and a half. He throws out a lackluster "Crap," and leans against the nearest wall. It's no surprise he's spent most of his time here sleeping. He tries to remember the side-effects of withdrawal. Panic attacks, check. Sweating, gross, check. Crankiness and severe mood swings, double check. Hallucinations? He gives a quick check for plate-sized spiders or pirate ships and comes away clean, so it looks like he's good on that front for now.

             It's pretty difficult to tell what could just be a symptom of being kidnapped for two days.

            He watches the view through the window listlessly for a while, his thoughts on how close his dad might be, until Sally leaves with a slam of the door. It coincides perfectly with a fairly urgent bodily function, so he decides that now is the perfect time to attract attention to himself. The door is locked, which he was expecting, and it withstands his kicks, which he was half-expecting but is still disappointed by. He stops finally when he hears someone coming, and backs away from the door only enough to not alarm whoever it is and put them on the defensive. It turns out to be Big Guy, looking unimpressed, but Stiles doesn't give him a chance to take it out on him, speaking immediately.

            "I have to pee." There's no point in delicacy anymore, not if he's stuck here for the forseeable future. "Seriously. I might literally burst. And I'm not cleaning it up."

             Big Guy rolls his eyes, but motions him out, and Stiles heads past him in the direction he's already memorised in grateful silence. He's stopped before he can go in, but Big Guy only reaches down and actually, finally unties his hands. Stiles is so thankful he's this close to wrapping the guy in a tearful hug, if it wouldn't get him beat up again, 'cause if there's one guy who screams 'no homo' it's this dude. He does his business and ends up leaning over the sink trying to slurp as much water as he can from the faucet, avoiding the mirror this time. He doesn't need to see how crap he looks if he can feel it, and if he's going to die then it's not going to be from something as pathetic as thirst, even if he'll probably pay for it later when he's forced to pee in a corner of his room.

             He stops before he can feel the urge to throw it all back up, though it's hard to pull himself away, and gets out to where Big Guy's waiting for him. "You wouldn't happen to have, like a sandwich on you, or — no, that's totally fine, I didn't even really want one — okay, _ow_ —"

             Derek is once more in his usual spot when Stiles gets back, aware of his return and tense until the door closes. Stiles puffs a heavy breath out and joins him, leaning against the wall beside the window with idle fingers scratching at the back of his head. He's taking great delight in giving in to the need to stretch now that his arms are free, and Derek offers him one quick once-over before returning his gaze to the ground outside. Stiles does the same, eyes roving over Derek for injuries, but he can't make out anything new. Maybe they healed already. Pretty ineffective torture.

             Stiles frowns. "Hey, can werewolves die of starvation?"

             Derek snorts, like his days without food have worn down whatever was protecting him from Stiles' sense of humour. "We're not invincible."

             "Holy—... God, one of you actually admits it!" Stiles throws his hands up in triumph. "Wow. This is a breakthrough, you know. This is definitely going in my diary."

             Derek doesn't look up from the window, but Stiles can hear the teasing mockery in his reply. "You keep a diary, huh?"

             Stiles folds his arms, leaning back. "Oh yeah, absolutely. Key moments in my life. I have a lot of feelings I need to get out. Like this one: dear diary. Today, my best friend was bitten by an actual honest-to-God freakin' werewolf. It was the funnest day ever." He's aware his tone is slightly manic and Derek's eyeing him now, but he can't make himself stop. "No wait, I got one. Dear diary, I haven't seen my Dad in almost three days, and I'm pretty sure he hasn't slept in that entire time. Also, if I ever wanna get home, I'm gonna have to betray everyone I potentially care about. And I actually wanna do it! How's that for a dramatic third act?"

            He's pretty sure he's mixing his literature metaphors, but Derek is boxing him in before he can move away from the wall and Stiles already knows from experience that it's futile trying to shove him away. It won't stop him trying.

            "Stiles... You just— You have to hold on for a little bit longer. They're on their way, you know they'll find you. Scott's looking. Your dad, he isn't gonna stop. You have to— You have to trust that they'll be here." Stiles wants to jeer, wants to throw his words back disdainfully because if anyone was actually coming they would be here already, but Derek ruins it with his next sentence, "But if you want to be selfish enough to cave, to give up everything? You go ahead."

            Stiles can't draw his arms back far enough to hit Derek satisfyingly in the face, so he goes for the chest instead, his face twisting in fury as he lunges. Derek chokes on his breath, the wind knocked out of him, but doesn't let Stiles go while he rages.

            "Fuck you! God, you're such a freaking _bastard. Fuck_ you, alright?"

            "That information is the only thing keeping you alive. You've seen their faces, you really think they're just gonna let you walk right out of here?" Stiles is shaking his head with his eyes squeezed shut, willing Derek to just shut up already and not far from just blocking up his ears like a child. "You know I'm right, Stiles."

             Stiles rubs his wrists against his forehead in agitation but Derek catches his hands to stop him before he can aggravate the friction burns from the rope further, moving them away. Stiles is on the verge of another panic attack, he knows, can feel it getting more laborious to draw in a breath. He raises his eyes to Derek, the asshole who's just watching him like he's some kind of challenge.

             _Nuh-uh. No, fuck Derek. This isn't gonna happen again, it is_ not _. I am going to be just fine. I'm gonna breathe out and out until it hurts, and then I'm gonna breathe in and in until I can't, and then I'm gonna do it again, and Derek can go fuck himself._ Stiles forces himself to hold Derek's gaze, his stubborn refusal to submit to the attack the only thing keeping the shuddering, strained breaths from overwhelming him. There's a tingling in his extremities that alerts him to the brink he's struggling to drag himself back from, though Derek's expression falls short of encouraging, still demanding regularity before he'll let Stiles move on. A choked humming sound in the back of his own throat startles Stiles enough for his breath to hitch momentarily. Derek's eyes drop to catch the movement, and Stiles stares.

            Every single time he's been this close to Derek have been without fail the least sexual and most terrifying moments of his life, and this is no exception... Except it is. Because this time it's not Derek that scares him but Derek who's shielding him, Derek who's keeping him from panicking. Stiles leans forward into his space, and Derek holds his gaze with a carefully guarded expression, but doesn't lean back or move away from him.

             Stiles pushes himself away from the wall and stands, for just a second, milimetres from Derek. There isn't enough space between them for him to even see him properly, though Derek's face is angled towards his, eyes on his mouth. He can feel Derek's ragged breath skittering over his cheek, and he holds himself there. There's still space, but he savours the intimacy of the sweltering air between the two of them for an almost endless moment, before finally tilting his head up to connect their lips.

            Stiles has very little idea what he's doing, not really, so he just tries to imitate what people do in movies. It seems to be working for Derek if his response is any indication, although it's hesitant and uncertain. Stiles takes care of that, surging forward with enthusiasm until he can feel Derek's hands around him and he can take it as encouragement, fisting his own fingers into Derek's shirt, his thumbs rubbing over the soft material in wonder.

            Derek's lips are chapped, and his stubble rough against Stiles' bruised cheekbones. Neither of them pull themselves back or make an effort to be gentler and Stiles uses the pain of every rough scrape across his hypersensitive skin to heighten the experience. It's him who eventually breaks the kiss first, although he doesn't draw away, just presses his forehead against Derek's cheek and takes a deep, steadying breath. "God... I _knew_ I should've packed a toothbrush."

            Derek doesn't laugh. "Stiles."

            Stiles freezes.

            "Stiles... We can't—" He doesn't even let Derek finish before he's tearing himself away, and this time Derek lets him. Stiles moves until there's distance between them, an entire room's worth, before he finally turns to look back.

            Derek still has the same guarded look on his face that he did before, and Stiles is seized with dread. The slow, creeping feeling of humiliation is beginning to wrap itself around his chest, squeezing the air out of him. "Did you... seriously just do that because you felt sorry for me?" Derek doesn't respond, but at least he isn't avoiding his eyes. "You did, didn't you? Oh my God... I can't believe this—"

            "You know why, Stiles."

             "You can't even give me this one... _freakin'_ thing, can you? I can't even stay in denial for a little bit longer." He takes it back, actually. Derek can look anywhere he damn well wants to, just so long as he's not staring at Stiles with this apologetic, pitying look that makes Stiles want to go over there and kick the crap out of him.

             Derek actually has the nerve to sound gently reproachful. "You know why we can't, Stiles. I'm not doing this with you right now."

             "—You're telling me I can't even have that, this one stupid thing, when I could potentially die at any second—"

             "—You're not gonna die, stop being so dramatic—"

             Stiles is fed up enough to keep talking over him and hope that Derek shuts up first. "—Oh really? It's not even like you'd know, is it, Mr. Invincible—"

             "—I'm not talking to you if you're gonna keep doing this, you _know_ why it's a bad idea—"

             "—Oh what, why? Because you're not even real?"

             Silence follows this, Derek's mouth snapping closed as though he's taken aback. Stiles doesn't see why he should be. It's not like he doesn't know.

             He presses his lips together to stop anything else bursting out in anger, but apparently the argument's over. He moves back to his corner and drops his head into his hands to block out the room. It's finished, done. The secret's out, that thing that neither of them were talking about, and Derek's gone. He's alone again in a strange house with strange people who want to hurt him and no way out.

             Except he isn't alone.

             "When?"

             Apparently even imaginary Derek is persistent. Stiles doesn't need to ask for an elaboration, folding his hands into his lap frustratedly and glaring up at him. "Somewhere between the invisible mountain ash and the actual concern for my wellbeing. I don't know, dude, does it really matter when I figured it out?"

             Derek doesn't answer, still standing where Stiles left him, because apparently hallucinations don't get tired. "You know what I actually don't get, though? Why you? Why not Scott, or my dad, you know— As a matter of fact, why not, like, Gemma Arterton? Or Angelina Jolie, I could hallucinate her. That'd be ten times more fun than you."

             Derek just frowns unhelpfully.

            "No, go on. You're like a—a representation of my subconscious, right? Enlighten me. Please. Why _you_?" He spreads his hands towards Derek, an invitation, and squints questioningly.

            "You know why."

            "Oh my God, I don't _know why_ —" Stiles pulls himself up short with a snicker of laughter he's too exhausted to put real effort into, and gestures to Derek. "Okay, fine. I guess I do know, but I— _Me. I_ don't. You do. So why don't you just tell me?"

            "Work it out." Derek shrugs, and Stiles swears to fucking God he's going to punch the real Derek next time he lays eyes on him.

            "...Or you could just tell me, and I won't feel a growing urge to set the whole house on fire." Stiles threatens, and Derek— Derek actually grimaces, which is no help whatsoever, because clearly his mind has gone all out with this picture and can't even just provide him with superficial-action-hero Derek Hale, it has to bring all of his issues along for the ride. He rolls his eyes, smacking his head back against the wall. "God... Well, if my Dad or Scott was here, I'd... I'd probably be having some intense, emotional conversations. I maybe would have figured it out sooner, it's pretty difficult to tell whether you're just being a _dick_ sometimes."

             Hallucino-Derek looks pretty unimpressed with him so far. Well, you know what, Stiles sympathises. "Look, I don't know, okay, what do you want me to say?! They'd be more helpful than you, that's for sure! You know, they might actually tell me that—that everything was gonna be okay, that I'd get out of here safe, that it didn't matter if—..." The realisation hits him as Derek raises his eyebrows significantly, and Stiles sighs in defeat. Derek isn't satisfied.

            "Say it."

            "Why?"

             " _Say it_."

             "For God's sake!"

             "Stiles, say it out loud—"

            "They'd say it didn't matter if I talked!" Stiles snaps, furious. "If I gave everyone up. They would let me do it. You..."

            Derek crosses the room to sit beside him. Stiles lets him without fuss, deciding that the point where your subconscious starts picking on you, you probably have bigger problems. "You get it now?"

            Stiles works his jaw though it aches, picking his words with surprising consideration. "You're so— You make me so pissed off, okay? You're so stubborn, even when everyone knows that you're wrong, and it makes me stubborn, and I freakin'... I hate that!" He scowls down at his hands. Derek doesn't say anything, but he can feel him close by, though he can't tell if he's looking at him.

            Stiles waits for several minutes to pass in silence, hoping his shouting hasn't drawn any attention from downstairs. "You know, I thought I'd at least have a couple more years before I went completely insane. Actually, wait, why the hell— How can I even see you—"

            Before he can finish the question Derek's reaching over to tap the side of his head, and Stiles twitches at the contact and smacks his hand away. Derek drops it, smirking at Stiles' surprise that his hand appeared to connect with something real, but then Stiles is distracted with the memory of the head injury he's been trying to ignore since the beginning. The low throb of pain in his skull flares as he prods the wound, wincing. "Right, the, uh... The blood."

             "Don't forget the Adderall." Derek supplies helpfully.

             "Fan-tastic." He mutters, letting his head fall back against the wall behind him. Derek reaches over without being prompted and pulls him in closer, and Stiles is too busy trying to figure out how he can physically feel Derek's body to protest much when Derek tugs his upper half practically into his lap, telling him to sleep.

            It's the middle of the day still, but neither of them make it a point. Stiles knows this excessive sleepiness is down to the lack of medication, but if it can buy him a few extra hours away from the desperate gnawing of his stomach and the rolling waves of nausea then he can't bring himself to care.

             He tucks an arm under his head, knowing that he's probably going to be twice as sore when he wakes up, and it's pretty fucked-up that he's completely down with this, right? Definitely. It definitely is. But then this is comparatively the least fucked-up thing that's happened to Stiles in the last year, so yeah. He's running with it. He shifts up to let Derek get more comfortable beneath him, but once they're settled and his face is pressed into Derek's torso as a surprisingly comfortable pillow, he actually starts to feel the tension ebbing.

             Derek's chest is rising and falling steadily under him, and he lets himself marvel at it for a moment, everything down to the detail in the cotton of the shirt. Stiles presses his fingers against it, and feels the muscles of Derek's abs tense in response.

            "What are you doing?" Derek murmurs, but Stiles doesn't answer - the dude is a manifestation of his subconscious, he can totally ignore him - and picks at the shirt, rubbing the material between his fingers. It feels soft, well-worn, and he can even smell the clinging remnants of laundry detergent under Derek's captivity stench, his days without showering. It's his mind that's created this, invented the scents and the material underneath him, though he's completely ignorant as to how or where he's taken them from. Derek captures his hand to stop him fiddling, then lets it fall.

             When Stiles wakes up in the middle of the night, he's alone.

             He curls over himself with his arms wrapped tightly around his stomach, trying to quell the rising urge to vomit with a tuneless humming in the back of his throat, and falls into another fitful sleep.

            Dawn breaks, and Stiles is woken by a hand twisting itself harshly in his hair and dragging him upright. He staggers and in his disoriented state fails to catch his balance, but the hand doesn't release him until he's on his knees. He rubs at the spot with a pained grimace, knowing that that's going to hurt like a bitch later, but the way that Sally is eyeing him right now makes him suddenly uncertain about whether later will even exist for him.

            Big Guy is hovering just inside the door, looking as though he's torn between intervening and not, but Stiles knows after what happened before he has more chance of escaping alone than having one of them stop her from killing him.

            "I'm running out of patience." She folds her arms, fingers tapping impatiently and expectantly as though Stiles is just going to say _of course, sorry about the wait, here's everything you were asking for_. He stares at her instead, trying to force his exhausted eyes to see her as more than an indistinct blur. "Talk."

            "Talk. Okay. I can do that." Stiles stumbles to his feet, stretching his limbs awkwardly, his face screwed up in a failed attempt at stopping a yawn. "Uh, you wanna talk about, like, favourite restaurants, or the weather... There's this great new frozen yoghurt place in town, actually. I'm sorry, food's pretty much the only thing I can think of right now, so—"

             "I'm gonna stop you right there." Sally holds up a hand and Stiles obediently stops speaking, startled. "I'm tired of this. I understand that you think not talking has kept you alive so far. Well," She spreads her hands and Stiles eyes them, warily, "I get that. I never had any intention of killing you. But right now, if I don't get the information that I need, this isn't gonna end well for you."

             Stiles shrinks back against the wall for balance, tiredly, trying to swallow down a mouthful of spit that he had no idea he was hydrated enough to collect. There's movement over her shoulder and he glances up - Derek is leaning against the wall opposite, eyes on Stiles. Neither of the hunters are paying him any attention, but Stiles can't look away from him because Derek appears to be trying to communicate something to him, and all Stiles is picking up on are significant looks in Sally's direction. Derek could just tell him, for God's sake, it's not like they would hear him! Stiles squints at him, but he's interrupted by fingers clicking in front of his eyes, snapping his gaze away.

            "Hello? Come on, focus on me. It's easy-peasy. Nobody has to get hurt here." She tilts up her chin reassuringly, and Stiles steadies himself, trying to figure out what Derek wants him to comprehend. He tries to direct his wavering focus back over what she's said so far. She's looking unnerved and speaking fast like she's worried about being interrupted, but _why would she be... and why would she be up here instead of downstairs, unless she knows that someone could be on their way?_

            Sally turns to the hunter in the doorway, throwing her hands up in annoyance at his inattentiveness. "I can't believe this guy. What the fuck is wrong with him? Hey, _kid_!"

            "My name is Stiles," Stiles says automatically, still trying to pin down his grasp of the situation. It's difficult to concentrate, there are too many things distracting him, way too much to focus on. He hardly dares to hope that it means the cavalry's on its way, police or wolves he doesn't care, but he can't imagine what else could get her so harried-looking.

             She scoffs in exasperation. "Stiles. Honey. I'm getting real sick of asking the same questions."

             _Hold on. Just a little longer._

             "I can't— I don't..." He can't even come up with a decent excuse anymore, his head is pounding, throbbing in time with his pulse. If she keeps coming at him right now, Derek or no Derek, he'll tell her, if only to get her to leave him in silence. "I don't—don't know."

             It's pathetic and she knows it. "Come on, Stiles. There has to be at least two, maybe more. They're your friends, right? That's why you're trying so hard to protect them." Her voice is low, almost gentle, and Stiles wants to be taken in by it so badly but _Derek_ , Derek is standing right beside her though she doesn't even look up. "We'll be out of your hair soon. It's such a small thing, you can do it."

             God help him, he wants to. He meets Derek's eyes.

             _You can do it._

             "Whatever you think you can do to me, I'll handle it. I'm not telling you shit." He pauses. "And seriously, you're a freaking nutjob."

            The last part probably wasn't necessary, but the way her face twists in fury and Derek is still there smirking is totally worth it. He braces himself for her retribution, but a crash somewhere downstairs stills all four of them. Stiles holds his breath, not daring to hope, but Sally's eyes are blazing, blisteringly angry.

            "Go check, Benny."

            "...Ralph's downstairs—"

             " _Go check._ " She snaps, and the Big Guy disappears. Stiles appreciates his reluctance, but now he's alone with Sally. She fixes him with a stare, eyes wide in controlled ferocity. "I have to hand it to you, kid. Your friends are organised." If he had the energy, Stiles would be on the floor in a weepy ball of helpless laughter, because _his_ friends? Organised? If they were anything, it would be tightly-wound and panicking, at a stretch.

             There hasn't been a sound since Benny disappeared. If it was the police, Stiles is pretty sure there should be a lot more shouting, but the wolves too aren't exactly known for their subtlety. He decides to chance it because he's damned if he kept their identities safe for so long just to blow it right in the final furlong, so he says quickly at a semi-normal volume, "Stay wolfed out, don't let 'em see your fa— _mmph_ —" He grunts in pain and surprise as she slaps a hand over his mouth, inadvertently knocking his head against the wall. She's physically smaller than him, but maybe just as strong, especially now that he hasn't eaten in a while and he's feeling pretty shaky on his feet. He won't risk fighting back, not until it really comes down to it.

             The next few minutes, from Stiles' perspective, are a whole lot of noise and confusion.

             There are foosteps pounding in various places around the house, and he tilts his head questioningly at Derek. Derek just gives him a disparaging look, and Stiles catch him muttering, "I'm not a ghost, Stiles, it doesn't work like that," before there's someone heading for their room, at full tilt. The door slams open and someone shouts to get down, and Stiles is only too happy to comply with the instruction seeing as he was already planning to let his legs collapse under him at a very near point in the future.

            He curls his hands over his head protectively when he hears the cock of a gun, not sure whether he's covering himself from harm or avoiding the sight of his friends being shot. The fear dissolves, void, when there's a hand on his arm and a voice trying to get his attention, and it's Scott, holy God, it's Scott, and Stiles wants to cry from relief. Scott pulls him up so that he's sitting, wincing empathetically when Stiles does because Scott is not gentle, though Stiles thinks he can definitely forgive him thanks to this epic rescue.

            Scott practically tackles him in a hug, and Stiles throws his arms around his best friend and almost overbalances both of them. Scott laughs but keeps them both upright, and Stiles hears a muffled, "God, you stink," and gives him a thump on the back for it.

            "You okay?" Scott finally asks, when he's managed to haul Stiles to his feet. Stiles catches sight of Sally, separated from her gun and only semi-conscious on the floor under Derek's watchful eye, and he doesn't waste a second before he's throwing himself at the alpha. He's hoping against hope that it's the right one otherwise this is going to look really silly real fast, but luckily he's caught in strong arms, Derek rocking back slightly with the force of Stiles throwing his arms around him.

             Stiles pulls away when his brain finally catches up to what he's doing, and Derek's arms drop limply to his side as though he'd actually been about to comfort Stiles. His expression speaks to a lot more confusion. A glance to Scott shows an identical _what the fuck_ expression that reminds Stiles that in the real world, he and Derek don't exactly get along, and Stiles shakes his head, brushing it off. "Uh, just— That was— Thanks."

             Scott catches Stiles when he stumbles, overcome by a sudden wave of exhaustion, and winds a steadying arm around his waist. "Woah— careful, Stiles."

            Stiles is wiped out, but he's determined to stay upright at least until he sees his dad. For now he lets Scott prop up his weight, balancing an arm around his shoulders. Sally stirs on the ground, and Derek, recovered from Stiles' show of affection, reaches down to grip her by the neck. Stiles stretches out a protesting hand to stop him. "Wait, wait — don't kill them."

            Derek hesitates. His eyes are locked on Sally, who's definitely awake and watching him with equal loathing. But he still hesitates. His voice is thick around his elongated canines when he speaks. "Why not?"

             Scott's watching him, worried, but Stiles just bites his dry lip and shrugs. Okay so her, he doesn't exactly care for. But all he can think about is the Big Guy, and the pasty office-worker type, and the dead body downstairs who tried to help him, and he doesn't want anything more to do with them forever but not like this. "I don't... Can't we just get them arrested or something? It just feels too harsh."

            Derek isn't looking at him when he spits out, "They're hunters," like it's enough of a reason for him. Which, actually, fine, Stiles is reconsidering. Even Scott is looking dumbfounded. "Stiles, just let him do it. We should get out of here." Stiles is a little surprised by the bloodthirstiness coming from Scott that sounds more like something he would say, but he pushes.

            "Okay, so they hunt werewolves, and they kidnapped me for like three days, or four—" Scott nods when Stiles glances to him, "—And killed a guy for nothing right in front of me and whatever—" Sally makes a choked sound as Derek's grip tightens and Stiles almost falls over to stop him, because that's totally not where he meant this to go, "But you killing hunters is just gonna bring down... a gigantic _ton_ of trouble on us that we're so unprepared to deal with. I'm just thinking long-term, here."

            Derek's still hovering, and Sally's waiting for him to make a move with a silent smirk that broadcasts triumph, though Stiles can't tell if it's because she thinks Derek won't go through with it or because she thinks he will. By the time Scott has Stiles steady again, the hallucination Derek is standing beside his real counterpart, which makes Stiles start in surprise.

            "Just trust him, Stiles."

            Stiles looks between the two of them, watching the hallucination look down with interest at the real Derek kneeling on the floor. The sight is so bizarre that he wants to laugh, but he sags against Scott instead, saying, "Okay. Okay, you make the call. I'm outta here."

             Scott catches the car keys that Derek wordlessly tosses him with reflexes that Stiles will _never_ tire of seeing in action, though he misses whatever Derek says that makes Scott grumble about having driven it before and so maybe Derek should shut up. Stiles is grateful enough that he doesn't have to walk to the hospital that he at least considers not making a quip about Scott's driving before he does it, and Scott takes it with a fond grin that fades the second he really looks at him. Stiles waits until they reach the car before he makes a face.

             "Not pretty, huh?"

             Scott gives him a rueful grin as he starts the Camaro. "You look like crap."

            "Hey, thanks." Stiles tries to relax into the seat, takes a deep breath in that does nothing to dispell the adrenaline of the last few days. "Wait, did — where's the rest of the pack?"

             "They took care of the others." Scott says carefully, and Stiles decides that right now is the best time to press him, before they're surrounded by other people and Stiles is forced to recite his story countless times.

             "We're going to the hospital?" Stiles questions, because it makes sense given the pretty intense facial bruising and the presumption that his father won't be waiting at home and Scott nods, eyes on the road. "My dad?"

             "Yep." Scott replies, which isn't any kind of answer at all.

             "Dude."

             "He's okay, Stiles, really. He's just stressed."

             Stiles takes this in, focusing on the rapidly changing view outside the window of the car. He squeezes his hands into fists a couple of times, and rubs his palms on his dusty jeans, feeling the grime of the house coating his skin. In a few minutes, he'll be able to relax. His dad will be nearby, and there'll be food - oh God, food - and he can get some real sleep.

* * *

            He doesn't expect the fuss when they get there. Scott manages a pretty badass, "I need some help over here," that Stiles groans at, though it's partially down to Stiles' ribs protesting when he eases himself out of the car. Everything moves pretty swiftly when they get inside. Scott makes sure he doesn't leave his side until Stiles makes him go call his dad, though he thinks he heard that someone might have called the police. He actually gets a hug from Ms. McCall, which was a little weird because he'd been pretty sure up until then that she usually just thought of him as just Scott's little odd friend, but hey, he's always down for hugs.

             He almost kisses the nurse who brings him a couple of Adderall and does plant one on Scott when he returns with crappy machine coffee, because he's kind of dying of thirst even though he's actually being supported by a saline drip. Scott gets a stare from his mother, and he says with a shrug, "What? It's for me." Stiles waits until she rolls her eyes and leaves before grabbing for it, and Scott gives it to him if only because he knows that if he doesn't Stiles will actually get out of bed and go get one himself, bed-rest or not.

             They won't let him have a regular-sized meal even though he swears he can take it, and they're validated when he throws up half of the coffee and Scott's banned from bringing in any more food. Stiles is willing to blame it on the crappy hospital coffee and offers to make a Starbucks run.

             He's not allowed to take a shower until the police get there which leaves Scott pulling a face. Whatever painkillers they've given Stiles are really working though, so he can't bring himself to complain. God, who knew beds were so comfortable? He definitely didn't appreciate them enough before.

             There's a nurse cleaning the blood and crap off his head wound when he finally hears his dad's voice. Stiles looks up from where Scott's trying to convince him that hoverboards were totally invented while he was away, and catches conversation outside the door. It only takes him a second to scramble up and almost knock the nurse flying when he makes for the door, but he barely stops to apologise because he can see his father in the corridor. The sheriff sees him too, and Stiles doesn't hesitate to throw himself into his father's arms and bury his face into his jacket. He forces himself to stay steady on his feet and not let them both sink to the ground or worse, end up having to be carried the few feet back to his room, but he can't keep in the choked, "Dad—..." that makes his father's grip tighten around him.

* * *

             "Just remember, you can stop any time you want to. Just say the word, this can wait." Stiles grins at his dad, who's pacing anxiously beside the deputy assigned to take Stiles' statement. God, if he has to stretch the whole ordeal ot any longer he's gonna kill somebody.

             "It's okay, Dad, it's fine. I might as well get it out of the way, right?"

             Sheriff Stilinski nods, letting the deputy take over finally. He's already offered to leave Stiles to recount in privacy and Stiles considered it, because he isn't sure he wants his father to hear what happened, but just for right now he doesn't want to let him out of his sight. And on reflection, the reality probably isn't as bad as whatever nightmares the sheriff might have imagined.

             He tells the story that he and Scott worked out on the drive over, the one that had him kidnapped by a group of robbers after he stumbled on them casing out one of the houses in their neighborhood. It wasn't the best cover he could have come up with, there were holes, but at least this was the version that he could blame on his own stupidity - Scott had suggested using someone with a grudge against his father, perhaps, and Stiles had shot that down. He refused to involve his dad at all until Scott pointed out that his dad already was involved, one way or another, however Stiles tried to spin it.

            Most of the rest of the details are unchanging. If he selectively removes the interrogating and the hallucinating (which he's definitely not mentioning), it was more or less him being mostly ignored for three days. It could have been much worse. When he describes the moment the 'robber' who tried to aid him was shot in front of him, he can see his father's grip on the rail of the bed tighten until his knuckles turn white.

            His dad gets a call in the middle of the recital and steps away to take it, though he doesn't leave Stiles' sight and Stiles isn't sure who it's to reassure the most. He's away for a while, and Stiles knows when he returns that this is when he's going to really have to make an effort with the cover story.

            "The house is empty, aside from the one in the basement that corroborates what you told us," He gives Stiles an apologetic glance, but Stiles is just relieved to hear that the rest of the pack got out before the police arrived. "Stiles, did you hear them talking about anywhere, some place they might have gone?"

             Stiles twists his mouth under the pretense of thinking, because he can't exactly tell them that Derek probably killed them all and buried the bodies in the forest. He says instead, "Nothin', nope. They probably just left town, you know, once they realised I escaped."

            "About that... So how did that happen, again? A couple of the doors were practically knocked off their hinges."

            Stiles tries his best not to act overly self-aware, knowing it's a losing goal from the start, and works at not tensing and giving himself away. They already planned on explaining away werewolf damage. "I got the key? From outside of the door, and I managed to lock myself inside, so then I could get out through the window and they wouldn't figure it out until they got inside. Must've kicked the door down, or something."

            His father's arms are folded in his classic bullshit-radar pose, but he also seems exceptionally mindful of how Stiles looks right now, which is probably the only thing being smacked to crap is going to get Stiles. He continues explaining how he found a payphone and called Scott, and it's pretty much the end of the story until his father interrupts. "Wait, so why call Scott and not the station? Or me?"

            Stiles stalls, and he can see Scott in the corridor shrug at him, which is completely unhelpful. "Uhh, I... Well, I figured you would be at the station, and I couldn't remember the number straight off the top of my head. I just went for an easy one, you know, I call Scott all the time."

            "You couldn't remember '9-1-1'?"

             Seriously, why does he get away with lying so often? He's _terrible_ at it. " _Right._ Obviously, that's a thing. I mean, who forgets 9-1-1? I'd have to be an idiot." He looks meaningfully out at Scott, who thumps his head dramatically against his hands. "The '9' button, though. On the phone, the little button was busted, so there was no way I could dial that. It—" He holds his fingers out to indicate a little button or something, "The button. No way. So, that was pretty much it."

            The deputy doesn't stay long once Stiles finishes, though his father looks poised to argue about the half-dozen or so things that already seem fishy with his story. Stiles knows they'll talk about it more, but right now he's way too tired to care, and he just wants to sleep with his dad nearby and Scott safe and no pounding headache. His dad makes it clear he's not going anywhere, though he turns the chair to the television and takes control of the remote which Stiles feels is deeply unfair.

            "You know, kiddo, most parents don't have to worry about their kid going missing once, let alone twice in one year," His dad murmurs over the sound of the game, "Gonna put your old man in an early grave, I swear to God."

            Stiles is all ready and prepared with a quip about victim-blaming until the second half of the sentence takes all the wind out of him, and he reaches over to grip onto where his dad's hand is resting beside him. "Don't say that." He swallows past the sudden lump in his throat, and really hopes his father isn't around for the real adrenaline crash, beause it's going to be embarassing. "God, Dad, don't even joke about that."

            The sheriff squeezes his hand apologetically. Stiles pulls away before the emotion starts making them both uncomfortable. "Seriously, though. I have to take a shower right now."

* * *

            "I think my dad's having trouble accepting that I'm not actually on house arrest." Derek hears Stiles call, and he rolls his eyes into his fridge.

            "You're not staying long enough for a drink?" It might be framed as a real question, but at least Stiles would understand that it actually isn't.

            "He made me promise like, five times to keep my cell on me at all times. You have no idea what it took to get him to go back to work last week. Seriously, you should have seen me, dude, I was like a logic _machine_. It was awesome." Derek straightens up, frowning at Stiles poking through Derek's few belongings in the loft. "And you know the cover we came up with definitely made me sound way more heroic than I actually was. At least he thinks I can take care of myself. Kind of."

             "What are you doing here?" Derek asks, for the third time. He doesn't even know how he found the place. Erica, probably, he thinks with a scowl. She's been trying to make it up to Stiles since they rescued him, without actually looking as though she is.

            "I can't just say hi to my favourite alpha?" Stiles grins at him, but at Derek's unimpressed expression his face falls. "Right, obviously, 'cause you're... _you_."

            "What's that supposed to mean?"

            "Nothing, it doesn't..." Stiles fiddles with the end of the bannister of the spiral staircase. "Look, I just want to know what happened. It's pretty exhausting looking over my shoulder all the time. You don't have to give me details, I just want to know if I have to keep worrying."

            Derek leans forward to look at him. The worst head injury is covered by a dressing but the rest of the bruises are still obvious, and clearly still pain him when he moves too fast or hard. Scott didn't need to tell Derek what Stiles has said about his time as a prisoner, Derek already knows, but it's clear that Stiles is uncertain around him. He wonders how much Stiles knows about the outside world during the time he was missing, the way Scott begged Derek for help and the chance encounter where Derek caught Stiles' scent on the female hunter. Stiles' question hangs between them, the Schroedinger's cat of murder, and Derek wonders what his reaction would be if Derek did end up having killed them all.

            "I took care of them." He says stiffly. Stiles works through this in his head, and Derek can see him arrive at a conclusion and just _relax_ , his muscles losing their tension as he nods. Derek watches him, a little disconcerted, because he's never had anyone before who trusts his word so easily. He elaborates, uncertainly, "I gave them to Chris Argent. You were right. We wouldn't have been able to handle more hunters. You don't have to worry about them anymore."

             Stiles looks surprised, but accepts this. Derek's expecting him to make some excuse and leave, but he hangs back by the staircase reluctantly. Derek, unwilling to deal with a teenage existential crisis when he knows there's at least three other people in this kid's life better suited than him, prompts him, "Did you want something else?"

             "No. No, I just... Actually yeah." Stiles reconsiders, and Derek waits. "I wanted to say thank you." Derek almost laughs out of surprise. Thanking has never exactly been a thing that any of them do. Stiles hurries to continue before he's interrupted. "Not for the rescue, but— Well, that too, I guess, but - and this is gonna sound completely insane, and stupid as hell, so just know that I'm still recovering from a, like, a _massive_ concussion. It was huge. And you... have no idea what I'm talking about, but— Just, okay." He scrambles to cover himself before Derek can stop him. "You were there for me. I mean, you weren't really there, obviously, but you know. When I really needed..."

            He waves a hand, vaguely. Derek is mystified, if this is going where he thinks it's going. "Are you... telling me one of your fantasies?"

            Stiles screws up his face in protest. "What— No! Dude, come on... For God's sake, it was a hallucination, alright. My mind conjured you up as a means of survival, so I just... wanted to say thanks. Whatever."

            Derek hesitates, amusement creeping over him. "So, you... _pictured me_..."

             "Okay: concussion, no Adderall, stressful situation. Pick an explanation. It could have been anybody." Stiles is scowling, and Derek doesn't bother to hide the smirk.

             "But it was me."

             "You know what? I'm not grateful. I take it back, never mind."

             Derek drops the grin before Stiles can make a move for the door, which he clearly wants to do. Derek's not sure that if he was in Stiles' position he'd be admitting it, which is a thought that sobers him. "No, it's fine. You're welcome." _You're welcome?_ "I guess."

             Stiles is watching him. Derek doesn't even bother to ask this time, just waits out the silence while Stiles stares at his chest as though he can see through it, until finally he blurts, "This is gonna sound - amazingly - even weirder, but do you mind if I just—" Stiles moves closer to him and Derek's eyes narrow in confusion.

            He lets him crowd close, suspicious but hoping that it isn't going to be another hug, because that was strange enough the first time. Stiles reaches out to him and Derek is guarded, but watches him tug at Derek's shirt and lean closer, and — is he _sniffing_ it? Before he can speak, Stiles is already pulling away, with an abrupt laugh that provides Derek with no explanation.

            "I better get back before my Dad starts sending out search parties, again. Just, uh, thanks. Again, for... Oh, you know what you did. Or you don't have any idea, which is actually way better. Never mind. I'm gone."

             Stiles slips out, the door closing gently behind him, and Derek is left alone, perplexed.

**Author's Note:**

> backflips into the sun


End file.
